She worked. Hands that had been painstakingly cleaned once again adopted dirt; she often thought that fingernails served no actual purpose except to accrue evidence of the labor that divided the patricians from the working class.
Birgide was not a chatty person, except when necessity forced it upon her; she worked, as she lived, in relative silence. She was surprised to find herself humming as she cleared a very careful amount of dirt, adding the water she had personally prepared. She had no fond memories of lullabyes; no fond memories of most human voices. She, like anyone who could hear them, enjoyed the work of the bards—but she did not seek them out; she accepted invitations to gatherings at which bards were guests. Bards were often found in the Western Kingdoms; they, like she, traveled widely in pursuit of their goals. She offered no offense to the bards, ever.
She did not know what kind of voice she had. She had no interest in choirs or singing. She could not, therefore, name the tune she was humming. She could stop, and did, but as she focused on work, on the familiarity of a pursuit that almost everyone—Birgide included on most days—felt was chasing rainbows, she took up the tune again, without intention, without deliberate thought.
She paused a second time, frowning.
This time, she looked at the cutting. It was, she thought, glowing softly; its light was gold. There were no strands around it, nothing to imply that there was an enchantment cast upon it by an external mage; it was simply golden. It reminded Birgide of summer.
When she began to hum a third time, she let it be, as if the song itself, wordless, was her only method of communicating with the Ellariannatte. And so, she hummed and planted. Her knees joined her fingers; although she had brought a mat on which she might kneel, unrolling it had entirely slipped her mind. She knelt upon the ground, her knees making rounded dents, as if, in some measure, she were temporarily planting herself.
There were days, in her distant childhood—a childhood she had escaped and would never return to—when she had dreamed of just that: to be buried someplace in the forest that was her only refuge. To be part of it. Of course, she had assumed she would be dead when and if it happened—but death had seemed like peace, because there had been no peace.
She almost never thought of her childhood. But it was true that the personal meaning of forests—the trees, the weeds, the wildflowers—came out of that childhood. Where there were no people, there was no pain. As a child, she could easily confuse lack of pain with joy; joy was absent. It was not something she experienced. Relief could make her giddy. Relief could give her small moments in which the act of existence was not a cosmic injustice in the eyes of people who were larger, and angrier, than she.
Training with the Astari had involved pain, injury, and not a little humiliation, but the pain was predictable and consistent; if she failed, if she did not learn quickly enough, she suffered. But she suffered only then. It had been a relief. It had not been like pain at all.
But joy? Joy had been the absence of pain. She developed pride in that absence as well: it meant she was stronger, smarter, swifter. It meant she had learned.
What, then, did planting and nurturing and tending have to do with joy? Pain was absent, yes; pride was present—when the careful nurturing and planning actually worked. But it was more than that.
These were alive. They took root, they grew, they aged—and yes, they died. They did not war; they did not politic; they did not rage. They existed, and they offered—to those who could grasp it—peace. And yet, even that was not quite right.
She hummed. Her hands were warm. By definition the earth was dirty, but it was a clean dirt. She could, with time, effort, and careful application of nail files, wash it away with nothing but water and soap. It did not stain her; it did not linger. As she worked, she smiled.
She could not honestly say she cared about the fate of Jewel Markess ATerafin one way or the other. By her very position, she was in the middle of every deadly game that the patricians could play. Somehow, playing those games had failed to kill her, but very, very few of the leaders of The Ten died a peaceful death; one could not count on winning.
What she cared about—what she had cared about the moment she first left the Terafin manse and entered the grounds—was the forest. The Terafin had given that to her. If The Terafin had not understood just how much it would mean to Birgide, that was fair; Birgide herself had had only the barest inkling.
She paused to examine her hand. It was—she was certain—burned to bone; the burn had not scarred. It did not, to the eye, exist at all. It did not pain her, although from time to time she could feel a tingle of something in the center of her palm.
She felt it now, as she worked. She felt it as she handled a cutting imbued with a golden warmth and light she had never seen before. She was almost certain that that light had existed in every other attempt; the ability to see it had come with the Terafin grounds. With the forest that could not exist, except in idle daydream and visceral yearning.
She knew, as she worked, that she would give her life to defend The Terafin because The Terafin stood at the forest’s heart—and only because of that. But that, she thought, had been enough. She looked, once again, at her hand.
With the meticulous care that characterized almost all of her work, she finished. She had left space in which to erect a tiny fence around the cutting, but the materials remained in the handcart. She rose, brushed specks of soil off her knees, and headed toward the cart.
The ground beneath her feet shuddered.
The carefully laid path, narrow and winding as it was, broke; stones rose, scraping against other stones as the path itself was shattered.
Sancor, she thought, with genuine panic, is going to kill me. Or die of apoplexy on the spot. She turned, and when she did, the gardening spades she carried fell out of almost nerveless hands.
The cuttings she had planted with such care were gone. What now stood in their place were two full-grown trees, with leaves of ivory-edged green that now dangled well above her upturned face. The artful implication of wilderness had been likewise obliterated, but from this vantage, the obliteration looked deliberate.
Birgide bent and retrieved her tools; she must have, because she held them in her hands. But she had no conscious memory of the action; no physical memory of it, either. She saw the trees, and saw the shadows they cast—but also saw, in the heart of the Courtyard gardens, the light. It fell in translucent, golden strands, from height to ground, anchored in earth and stone, twining around brass and plated iron, blending with the blue of carefully sheltered magestones.
It was, she thought, the same light that imbued the wilderness behind the Terafin manse. She passed her hands through it and heard notes; they were similar. Her hands caught on nothing; she felt the shift of temperature, no more, and even that was so slight it might have been imagination.
She heard shouting somewhere in the distance; she heard footsteps. She knew, within minutes, she would no longer be alone at the foot of the Ellariannatte she had struggled to grow here for much of her adult life.
She felt no triumph. She understood that this was not, in the end, her success; it was not through dint of will and trial and error, through repeated failures and repeated attempts, that she had finally experienced a measure of success. She understood, and felt a pang of something that was almost disappointment. But no disappointment could survive the sight of these trees.
They did not magically alter the rest of the Courtyard gardens, which was a profound relief. If Sancor was grateful that she had succeeded—and she had no doubt he would be—he nonetheless had to deal with every other artist that toiled here, one of whom would be justifiably unhappy.
Sancor arrived first. Behind him she saw Almette, and behind Almette, three under-gardeners; the three were younger, and their jaws were hanging open. Only Almette was bold enough to breach the distance to hug Birgide; to, in fact, lift her off her feet
, squealing in wordless delight.
Sancor would have died first, but even Sancor looked cautiously pleased, although on his sun-weathered face, this barely shifted the line of his brow. Cuttings did not become full-growth trees in seconds. Not even in the Kings’ gardens. But if it could happen in Terafin, his expression implied, it could—and should—happen here.
He had not, of course, considered the implications of what it meant should it happen here. And he should have: the entire Palace Staff had been in shock when the supporting pillars—of stone—had magically been transformed into something entirely unfamiliar. So had sections of floor.
It was not spoken of, even among the servants.
If Sancor did not consider the implications, Birgide knew at least one man would. She was not at all surprised when the Lord of the Compact walked down the badly jarred footpath. He didn’t sprint, as the others had; nor did he gape at the two Ellariannatte. He barely glanced at them, his measured gaze was so focused.
The gardeners, however, were immediately ill at ease. Duvari had that effect on everyone, regardless of their station.
“Where,” he asked, “did these trees come from?”
No one answered, which surprised Birgide. She would have expected Sancor to throw her to the wolves.
“They are here,” Sancor said stiffly, “with permission.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“That is all you require. You are not the Lord of the Courtyard; you are the Lord of the Compact. If you have concerns, address the Master Gardener.”
Duvari did not look surprised; Birgide was. She failed to stare at Sancor because she could control surprise or shock with relative ease. She, however, had no desire to throw Sancor to the wolves at this particular moment. “With the permission of the Master Gardener, and the Kings themselves, I brought cuttings from the Terafin manse to the Courtyard; if there is blame or suspicion, it must fall on me.”
Duvari nodded. “When did you bring the cuttings?”
He, of course, knew. She was certain he knew to the minute when she had been granted access to Avantari and, further, to the Courtyard gardens. She answered his question, regardless.
“Very well. I would like to speak with you further on the subject of these cuttings. Those are your possessions?”
She nodded.
“They are all of the possessions that entered Avantari with you?”
She nodded again.
Sancor was annoyed; he was far less adept at hiding this than Birgide. He was Head Gardener here, and junior to no one except the Master Gardener, who was not, in fact, standing in Duvari’s shadow.
“Head Gardener,” Duvari said, before Sancor could speak. “This is not a matter of pretty plants; it is a security matter. You may answer to the Master Gardener in other concerns; everyone except the Kings answers to me in matters of security.”
“I am not,” Birgide quietly pointed out to Sancor, “a member of the gardening staff. Given the circumstances, his concern is reasonable; I am not offended.”
“You have clearly not spent enough time with the Lord of the Compact,” Sancor replied, somewhat acidly. “But if you are determined to obey, I will accept it. I will be certain to mention this to the Master Gardener,” he added.
Birgide did not want to be anywhere near that conversation, but given the slight tautness of Duvari’s expression, wouldn’t be. He was angry. “Will you quarantine the cart?” she asked him.
“The magi,” he replied, “are here. They will, no doubt, be interested in the trees themselves.”
She wilted. Sancor swelled. There was, she thought, no activity in any walk of life that did not, in the end, become political. On the other hand, the war that the gardening staff could start did not generally involve bloodshed and bodies.
• • •
And so, she stood in the back office of the Royal Trade Commission. Her gardening tools and her handcart were impounded; the magi were inspecting them, no doubt with disdain and gloves to protect their hands from simple dirt. She had not been subjected to the magi, beyond the cursory entrance scan; she was certain they were demanding that right somewhere beyond her hearing.
On the other hand, the magi did not care for Duvari, nor he for them; he was not inclined to give in to any of their demands, as it set a bad precedent. They would have their work cut out for them.
Accordingly, she had time, and silence, to consider both the office and the events of the afternoon. She had left her handcart; she had not, in fact, left either the satchel or the scroll she had been given. Nor had she surrendered either to Duvari, along with the cryptic message that was to accompany the scroll. No, she thought, the message had not been cryptic. The opinion offered was extremely clear.
She waited. The interior office was empty and would, no doubt, remain so; the front office was staffed by two young men, who looked professional but somewhat harried. The heightened precautions that had caused the number of Kings’ Swords present to swell had had effects everywhere.
No one wanted a demon to burn down a large portion of Avantari. Demons had recently entered Avantari with the intent to assassinate the princes, and while Duvari was aware no security could have prevented that attack, he was also aware that there were other occasions in which demons had chosen to enter through the front door or the service entrances. If he could not make their presence impossible, he could make it more difficult.
She smiled, thinking it. Duvari was, all vehement diatribes aside, a man. One man. He was not mage-born; not, to Birgide’s knowledge, talent-born at all. But she could easily imagine Duvari going toe-to-toe with the demons. She could rationally assess his chances: poor. But she could not viscerally believe what the rational mind insisted was true.
She did not believe that Duvari was the source of the security breach. She acknowledged that she was not impartial; she had preparations in place, should those beliefs be proved wrong.
As she waited, she gave in to a restlessness that would—in her childhood—have been grounds for severe punishment: she walked. She moved through this one room, touching strands of light above standing cabinets, desks, innocuous workbenches, listening, as she did, for the notes that touch invoked.
She wished, briefly, that golden strands graced this office; the sounds of the violet and blue were lower, resonant base notes. The orange was of a medium range; she wished, again, that she had studied music. She hadn’t. She could play what sounded pleasant to her—but she suspected that the bards could have created a symphony of sound, dancing across the room between clusters of finely tuned strings.
She wondered what the result might be.
“I see you are restless,” A familiar voice said.
She turned as the notes stilled. Duvari had come, and he was not alone. To his right stood a man she had met perhaps twice: Maures ADonlan. He was Duvari’s contemporary; he, like Devon, was part of the Royal Trade Commission. Unlike Devon, he was not junior enough to be at the beck and call of the aging Patris Larkasir—but he had no desire to run the office. He handled specific routes between the Empire and the Dominion, and he handled them with a quiet, graceful competence; he spoke at least three languages, each of them so fluently the small mistakes translation could inspire were absent.
And none of that was important information at present.
No information about Maures was, or would be, relevant again—not in the same way. Where the magic cast by the magi—at the direction of the Lord of the Compact and the Mysterium—was colored and delicate, the nimbus that now surrounded Maures was not; it was thick and dark, like the black smoke that rose from burning flesh. She looked at him, nodded coolly, and turned to Duvari, wishing for one long moment that she still cradled the cuttings of her precious trees in her arms. They would form a shield between her and what was left of Maures ADonlan. Where he walked, the strands she thought of as evidence of magic
seemed to bend or twist to avoid his touch.
They did not avoid Duvari in the same way. It was the only relief she felt, and there wasn’t enough of it.
“What,” Duvari asked, “have you done in the Courtyard gardens?”
“At the request of the Master Gardener—the repeated, public request—I brought cuttings culled—with permission—from the Terafin grounds to the Courtyard. I worked with both permission and supervision. I have done nothing against any protocols.”
“Do not,” Maures said, “play games.”
Birgide raised both brows; she had never quite learned the art of lifting only one. “I am unaccustomed to games,” she replied. “I am a botanist. I have little—very little—to do with politics of any stripe; my concerns, when I pursue research or studies within Avantari, are entirely the rules and protocols of the Master Gardener. If I have offended in some way—and apparently, I have—the people with whom you must raise your concerns are the gardening staff.” She had stiffened, shifting position; this, given the chill in her tone, would not be remarkable.
But she listened. She listened to Maures’ voice. It was deep and rich and multi-layered—as unlike her own voice to her ears as the music she plucked from translucent, magical strands. Duvari’s was also thin and unremarkable.
Maures glanced at the Lord of the Compact; Duvari was impassive. He demanded no further explanation, but he did not attempt to leash his companion.
“The Master Gardener,” Maures said, “did not cause trees to magically reach their full height in a matter of minutes. This has occurred in no other lands but the estates Terafin controls—and you have come from the Terafin estates. I ask again, explain yourself.”
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 53
